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by pikestaff



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Blood Elves, Gen, burning crusade gives me feels, garbage warriors write forever dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-05-04 14:22:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5337314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikestaff/pseuds/pikestaff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a high elf and the world that comes crashing down on him.  Based off of the questline in Netherstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Attack

**Author's Note:**

> A story based off of an NPC in Area 52 and a questline he starts. Takes place during the Burning Crusade.

Quel’Thalas was only a portal away.

This was the thought that shot through Ravandwyr’s mind now, and not for the first time. Normally, he’d push this thought away with a chuckle and forget about it. But now, the thought was followed up by confusion. Something had happened. Something big. Something that he didn’t understand.

“Are you alright?” the voice belonged to Archmage Vargoth.

His master was still alright, then. Thank the Well. “I’m alright,” Ravandwyr replied, towards the general direction of the voice. It was dark. Every light, magical or not, had been extinguished. “What happened?”

“I don’t know yet,” replied the Archmage. He summoned a small sphere of glowing, golden light which floated above them, gently illuminating the features of the human, the elf, and the elf’s familiar: a tiny slate-colored dragonhawk. The human wore the violet robes of the Kirin Tor and a tall, pointed hat, and his normally thoughtful face was now etched with concern. The elf, meanwhile, was slight, with flowing blonde hair, blue robes that seemed a bit too large on him and long, elegant ears that, likewise, seemed too large on him. His blue eyes glowed in the dim light due to the energy of arcane magic within him. The glow was dimmer than it had been, once, but it was present nonetheless as he regarded his master. “I heard an explosion.”

“Indeed,” said Vargoth, and his voice quavered just a bit. “I heard it too. And did you see the flash of light in the northwest?”

Ravandwyr nodded. He didn’t trust his voice not to shake if he tried to actually reply.

Vargoth turned to face a window which was a few strides from them. Something about the view from the window seemed off, although Ravandwyr couldn’t quite make out how. He had the brief impression of a haze or maybe a cloud which had descended entirely on Kirin’Var Village. But that made no sense. Before he could think on it any further, though, Vargoth blinked across with a quick teleport to peer outside. Ravandwyr held his breath. Somehow he didn’t think he would like what the Archmage said.

“I can’t make much out,” Vargoth said at length. “We’ve been attacked by something. That much is clear.”

“The… the Legion has found us? Or… Naberius?” Ravandwyr managed to spit out. Beside him, his dragonhawk trilled softly.

Vargoth shook his head. “This energy isn’t fel. Nor is it that of necromancy. It’s arcane. I see a sort of haze… what do you see?”

Ravandwyr took a few steps closer, and as he did so, he quickly realized that the Archmage was correct. As an elf, he possessed the natural ability to _see_ arcane magic, and that was exactly what he saw then: twisted ribbons of violet and ultraviolet, packed together more densely than he had ever seen before. They emanated from the northwest in a distinct pattern: this was no accident. “A weapon,” he said.

The Archmage nodded. “That’s what I thought. A weapon of sheer arcane energy. But we’ll have time to speculate on that later. For now, we’re to head out, round up any survivors, and head to the Violet Tower.”

“Sir?”

“That’s an order.” Vargoth paused, and then added, “I… suspect that an attack of this magnitude did not end well for many people. There will be some casualties. And our attackers may very well still be in the area. Do be on your guard.”

“But… who would… who even _could_ …?”

Vargoth turned and looked at Ravandwyr oddly, with an expression that the elf couldn’t quite make out. He didn’t like it, so he changed the subject. “Where do you wish me to begin, sir?”

“Southeast. I’ll head Northwest towards the officers’ quarters. Be quick.” He blinked to the door and let himself out; Ravandwyr followed close behind.

Once outside, he actually had to steel himself against the waves of arcane energy that continued to press in from the northwest. Shielding his eyes a bit from its glare, he glanced around to see that the village had been almost entirely destroyed. Some buildings had been leveled entirely, while others were severely battered but still miraculously standing. Likewise, wizards and farmers alike were scattered across the broken land of Netherstorm, and while many lay prone, others showed signs of life.

Without wasting any time, Ravandwyr got to work. He teleported from person to person, helped them to their feet, and sent them off to the Violet Tower, as his master had told him to do. Many of the survivors were in rough shape, and it was all Ravandwyr could do to not personally help them along, but others seemed to be doing alright and they were able to start helping others themselves. Together they were able to fan out and reach a fair number of people, much to Ravandwyr’s relief.

He was searching the southern side of the village, which appeared to be largely deserted, when he heard unfamiliar voices. Something about the voices was different, to him, but he didn’t put any thought into this as he quickly went invisible and then hid himself behind a large plow, lest his spell break.

From his vantage point, he could pick out two voices, although he could not yet see who they belonged to. And as he listened to them he noted, again, that there was something different about them. “Any survivors seem to be headed towards the tower in the middle,” one of the voices said.

“Well that makes our job easier,” the other voice replied. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not sure why we’re taking this detour to begin with.”

“Don’t let the Prince hear you say that! By the Sunwell.”

Ravandwyr froze, as though ice cold water had been poured down his back. For a moment, he tuned out everything but the realization that _that_ was what was so different.

These attackers were speaking Thalassian.

He did not pay attention to the rest of what they were saying as they walked away, and eventually he summoned the courage to look out from his hiding place behind the plow.

Elves.

Like him.

Had done this.

Ravandwyr’s mind raced. He had been up here, in Outland, for many years, and had been isolated from most news from back home. But there were bits and pieces that he did know. He knew, of course, of the Sunwell’s destruction. This was something he could _feel_ well before he had even heard the official news. He knew that King Anasterian was dead and that Prince Kael’thas had taken charge. He knew that his people were now calling themselves sin’dorei— blood elves— a technicality that Ravandwyr paid little heed to. For his part, he saw himself as a quel’dorei just as he always had.

But he knew little else. He hadn’t seen an elf, besides the others like him in Kirin’Var Village, since his time spend in Dalaran many years prior.

But now Kirin’Var was being attacked by his own people, and Ravandwyr knew his own people well enough to know that the Kirin Tor was in trouble.

He would have to warn Archmage Vargoth. As soon as possible.

So, while still invisible, he teleported himself and his dragonhawk to the Violet Tower.


	2. The Tower

“Ravandwyr. Status report.”

The elf’s heart pounded in his chest; the beat of a hawkstrider running at top speed down the worn paths of Eversong. His eyes were wide and he opened his mouth to speak, but it was dry and nothing came out.

“Status report,” the Archmage pressed, gently but firmly. “I know you saw something.” They were in the Violet Tower; alongside as many wizards, farmers, and villagers as they had managed to gather. The number was not as many as Ravandwyr would have liked.

He nodded, finally. “It’s Prince Kael’thas,” he said finally, and his voice was little more than a whisper.

Vargoth’s eyes grew sad. “Somehow, I… I am not surprised,” he replied with a sigh.

And then, as if on cue, the voice of the Prince himself rang out from outside— a voice that was strong and clear, and that reminded Ravandwyr entirely too much of Anasterian’s. He shuddered and closed his eyes.

“My, my, what has happened here? The mighty Kirin Tor is… stuck? But who, I wonder, could possibly be more powerful than the Kirin Tor? More powerful than Dalaran’s finest? Could it be… the sin’dorei?”

Ravandwyr shut his eyes tighter. He refused to open them. He refused to look into the eyes of his high elven companions, trapped inside the tower with him. He refused to relive what they were now feeling.

“If it is me you want, Prince Kael’thas, you can have me,” Vargoth called back. “But have mercy on the others. Some of them are elves.”

“And elves who continue to side with the Kirin Tor are elves in name only,” Kael’thas replied without missing a beat, and the phrase was a dagger through Ravandwyr’s heart. He had heard that relations had become strained recently, but…

“You will learn, now, what it means to cross us,” the Prince continued. “ _Tal anu'men no sin'dorei!_ ”

And with that statement, the air around them began to change, and Ravandwyr could sense almost instantly that Kael’thas was casting a spell on the tower itself.

But then Vargoth was pressing something solid and smooth into Ravandwyr’s hands: his staff. Ravandwyr opened his eyes to see Vargoth looking at him anxiously. “Take it and run,” he hissed.

“What?”

“Quickly, we don’t have much time before Kael’thas finishes his spell and traps us all in here. I have a plan. Use the staff to summon my image once you’re safe. Go! Run upstairs! Teleport out!”

The urgency in his voice was very unlike the Archmage, and without pausing to question him, Ravandwyr grabbed the staff and rushed up to the top of the tower. As he did so, he could feel the thick denseness of the magic outside thinning some. The magic wasn't yet as strong in the upper levers of the tower as it was down below. In that case, he could probably still escape, but he would have to be quick. He lifted his arms and cast a spell, and he could feel the magic he was casting fighting with the magic that was circling and encasing the tower. He willed it to punch its way through—

And— 

It did—

And he and his tiny familiar were both standing outside, a good distance from the Violet Tower. From his vantage point he could see a squadron of elves surrounding the small wizard village. He thought he could make out Prince Kael’thas, too.

_His_ Prince…

He shoved the thought out of his mind and spun on his heel, and headed west towards the old draenei village of Arklon. He could hide there. Held tight in his hands was Vargoth’s staff.


	3. The Escape

Quel’Thalas was only a portal away.

The thought was back. It wasn’t welcome. All Ravandwyr could think, as he ran, was that home was no longer home.

Perhaps this shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Kirin’Var had been his home for many years, and Dalaran had been his home for many years before that. Quel’Thalas and Silvermoon were a lifetime behind him.

So why did he still cling to it, he asked himself now, like an old blanket or toy? Why did it matter? _Why does it have to be so Sun-damned comforting?_

Blood pounded through his heart and his ears. He was no longer welcome among his people: that much was clear to him. So he pushed Quel’Thalas out of his mind, and his thoughts turned to his master and the other wizards of Kirin’Var. What was Kael’thas going to do to them? Clearly he had no qualms about killing his former comrades— he had already killed so many of them in the initial attack. And what of Vargoth? What were _his_ plans?

He did _have_ plans, at least. That was comforting enough. All Ravandwyr had to do was keep a hold of the staff and get to someplace safe, and then he’d be able to contact the Archmage and, hopefully, help him with some sort of rescue operation.

So he rushed headlong into Arklon, barely even pausing to notice the fel-tainted energy in the air…

…fel-tainted energy?

Ravandwyr’s familiar screeched right as two felhounds launched themselves at him from behind a broken building. With a flick of his the elf froze them in place and stood back to summon a powerful icy storm. Then he sensed something behind him, and he whirled around to see an enormous doomguard towering above him, its wings outstretched and its eyes glowing a sickly green.

Behind him, Ravandwyr heard the felhounds crash their way out of their icy prison. But rather than charge at him, they approached slowly, a low, unnatural growl rumbling from their throats. Indeed, the doomguard hadn’t made much of a move, either. It was simply staring at him.

No.

It was staring at Vargoth’s staff.

Of course. The demons could see magic just like Ravandwyr himself could. That was what they wanted.

Well, he wasn’t going to let them have it. He raised his arms and cast another cold spell, frost flowing from him in every direction as though he was made of frost himself, and then he blinked away without looking back.

So he was running again. This time away from Arklon. Unfortunately Ravandwyr had cast his frost spell so soon after the last one that it didn’t last very long, and within seconds he heard the spell break and the demons resume their chase. It was no matter, he’d just go invisible…

…but then another felhound leaped out from behind a building to his side, blindsiding him completely and knocking him over. Vargoth’s staff slipped from his grip and slid across the ground, and as he reached out for it a demon far larger and far more vile than any of the others stepped on it with an unusually delicate foot. Ravandwyr looked up to see a shivarra, a six-armed demon priestess who smiled a sick smile at the mage sprawled out on the ground before her. All around him the felhounds began to close in, like cats descending on their prey. Then they lunged, and Ravandwyr went invisible.

He didn’t look back until he was several paces away, and when he did, the staff and the shivarra were both gone.


	4. The Mage

“Hush, Sagan. It’ll be just a few moments.”

The tiny dragonhawk trilled again, in protest, as Ravandwyr conjured a minute, lightly spiced muffin and then finally placed it in front of his familiar. The creature dived in as though it had not eaten in months— although it had really only been a few hours. Ravandwyr smiled as he watched his companion eat before conjuring some plain bread for himself. He munched on it while he continued the meditation that he taught himself to perform regularly to keep his cravings for magic at bay. He allowed his thoughts to drift as he did so. Usually they were in order: first he’d think back to Kirin’Var Village, and then when that was too painful he’d think back to Dalaran, and then happy memories of that glorious mage city would lead into happy memories of the first city he’d ever known… and then, despite his knowledge of the truth, he’d inevitably spend several minutes dwelling on thoughts of home. Of schooling under the tutelage of Instructor Antheol, who was proud of his students’ progress but would never admit it. Of lessons under Voren’thal the Seer, who would desperately pretend to be serious but was always laughing and playing pranks by the end of class. So much time spent in the eternal springtime that bathed Eversong Woods; so much time spent among its golden-leaved trees… but then he’d remember what had happened to his people, and he’d feel guilty for thinking such happy thoughts of home, and he’d push them away.

It had been a few weeks since the incident. Ravandwyr had relocated to Area 52, a goblin outpost in western Netherstorm. Several times he had considered heading to Shattrath or even Dalaran, but he refused to leave his master behind entirely. To leave the area, he thought, would be to accept defeat.

Not that he had any idea what to do now, of course.

He had been staying at the inn, paying for his stay with conjured food and the small amounts of coin he made by performing magic tricks to curious passersby. But then some blood elves had arrived, and Ravandwyr was terrified of them, so he moved to a makeshift cot in a nearby shop. He watched the sin’dorei from a distance, refusing to talk to them or approach them, although he assumed that they had spotted him from afar with their sharp green eyes. He heard them talking, sometimes, although he couldn’t quite piece together much of what they were saying. Occasionally he wondered what they were talking about, but mostly he just focused on avoiding their attention. It seemed to be working well enough, at least.

There was a knock at the door, suddenly, interrupting Ravandwyr’s meditation. He shook himself from his reverie. It was probably a goblin local, come looking for the shopkeeper, who was out. “Come in,” he said, as he stood.

The door opened and Ravandwyr found himself staring at the face of a young sin’dorei mage.

Ravandwyr was speechless, but the mage didn’t seem to notice as he rushed headlong into the small shop and shut the door. Then he turned and looked sheepishly up at Ravandwyr. “Sorry,” he said in Thalassian. “Some goblin wouldn’t leave me alone. I think he was trying to sell me his mother or something. By the Well! I told him I had other business to conduct.” He breathed a sigh of relief.

Ravandwyr still hadn’t said anything; indeed, he had hardly moved. He sized up the young mage; he had short auburn hair and was in a mishmash of armor, which suggested that he was probably an adventurer. Those green eyes, though! Ravandwyr still hadn’t gotten used to the glowing emerald eyes that his people now sported. He found it difficult to look at them. Indeed, the mage now seemed to be examining Ravandwyr’s own eyes, as though surprised to see that they still glowed a light blue.  
“You’re…” the mage began, “…you’re not a Scryer, are you?”

Ravandwyr had heard the term bandied about Area 52. It was used to describe a certain subset of blood elves, although he knew little about them or what they stood for. “No,” he said at length.

“I apologize,” the mage said. “I saw you through a window and thought… well.” He shrugged. “I can see you’re a fellow mage, at least.”

“Of the Kirin Tor,” Ravandwyr stated somewhat more harshly than he intended to. But he wanted… whoever this person was… to know for sure that they were not one and the same.

It didn’t seem to faze the mage, however. If anything it just impressed him. “Are you an Archmage, then?”

Suddenly Ravandwyr wasn’t sure how to reply. Finally he decided to stick with the truth. “Not yet,” he said. “I was serving an apprenticeship under my master.”

“Was?”

Ravandwyr looked away. “He is… indisposed at the moment,” he said.

“I see,” said the mage. There was an awkward silence, which was eventually broken by the trilling of Sagan. The mage looked down at the tiny creature and smiled, kneeling down and holding out a hand which the dragonhawk tentatively sniffed. Another moment of silence passed, and then the mage spoke up. “You wouldn’t happen to have any jobs that a roving freelancer might take, would you?”

“I do not.”

The mage nodded and stood. “I was afraid you wouldn’t,” he said, “But I have to admit I was hoping you would. Just about anything would beat collecting old Fel Reaver parts for goblins.” He turned to peer out the window on the door. “I’ll stop bothering you, anyway,” he said. But let me know if you do come up with anything for me to do. I’ll be around for a little while. Shorel’aran!” Then he blinked outside of the door without another word.


	5. The Staff

Over the next few days Ravandwyr saw the adventuring sin’dorei mage around, although they never talked. He always seemed to be busy, doing work either for the goblins or the Scryers. His presence made Ravandwyr uncomfortable, for no other real reason than he feared they would have to talk again eventually and that wasn’t something he was particularly looking forward to. He also didn’t like how healthy and full of energy the adventurer seemed to be. Ravandwyr and the high elves of Kirin’Var, while powerful, were also often lethargic since the loss of the Sunwell, but this mage appeared to be none the worse for wear. _It’s because he sucks energy out of fel crystals_ , Ravanwyr reminded himself, although this just upset him even more. It wasn’t fair that the elves doing something so vile were the ones who got to be healthy and vibrant.

His relationship with the mage would soon change, however, when one day he sensed something different in the magical currents of the air around Area 52. Something familiar. He was in the shop he’d been staying at and gingerly he looked out the window.

The mage was standing not far off outside. And he had Vargoth’s staff.

Without stopping to think Ravandwyr blinked outside, reappearing nearly on top of the adventurer. “That staff… give it to me!”

The mage’s expression was one of surprise and then of confusion, but he handed the staff over. Ravandwyr quickly began turning it over in his hands, feeling and inspecting it. “This staff belonged to my master,” he explained after a moment. “It allows me to contact him. Where did you get it?”

“The ruins of Arklon. Demons were holding it. I was doing a favor for the goblins and…”

Ravandwyr didn’t let him finish his story, as now he was gaping at the mage incredulously. “You killed the demons there?”

“Yes.”

Ravandwyr squinted his eyes. There was a time when he probably could have done likewise, but since the loss of the Sunwell, his powers, while still formidable, had been greatly diminished. It was his tradeoff, he supposed, for refusing to follow the path of his wayward brothers.

Regardless, he had the staff now, and that was what mattered.

He examined the top of the staff. Something had seemed off about it, and now his heart sank as he realized that the headpiece was missing. It had clearly been wrenched off by some powerful force— presumably the demons.

“What’s wrong?” the mage asked, noticing Ravandwyr’s expression.

Ravandwyr shook his head. “There should be a crystalline headpiece up top… here.” He tapped the top of the staff. “But the demons seem to have taken it. No doubt to use for some other ritual or trinket. Unfortunately it worked in concert with the rest of the staff, so now the staff is essentially unusable.” Ravandwyr was quiet as he thought briefly about his options. He knew that he didn’t need the exact crystal to repair it. Any flawless crystal could do. “I could probably repair it,” he said, “with a suitable Draenei crystal. Unfortunately those are really only found in draenei ruins, and those are all either haunted by restless spirits or completely overrun by demons… as you’ve already seen.” Ravandwyr smiled wryly.

The mage nodded, and then after a moment offered “I could get some for you.”

Ravandwyr looked up at him. “You?”

“Yes. I mean, I am an adventurer, after all. It’s… kind of what I do.” The mage chuckled.

“But… but I don’t have anything to give you in return,” Ravandwyr said. “No gold, I mean. And how am I to repay you if…?”

The mage shook his head. “You don’t have to,” he said. “It’s reward enough to know that I’m helping a fellow magister.”

Ravandwyr was touched. He also didn’t know how to respond to the young mage’s statement. Finally he stammered, “I would go with you, but I fear… I’m not as strong as you. I haven’t been since… since the, uh, incident with the Sunwell.” He looked away, knowing full well that as a sin’dorei the mage had more than likely been present during the Scourge invasion of Silvermoon. He didn’t want to bring up a sensitive topic.

But the mage simply nodded. “I understand,” he said. “If I find any suitable crystals, I’ll bring them back to you right away.”

“Thank you,” Ravandwyr said genuinely. “And good luck.”

The mage blinked away and was gone.

Hours passed by and Ravandwyr was restless for the rest of the day and into the evening. He kept the staff with him, unwilling to let it out of his sight, although he also wondered if he could summon up the courage to even use it and talk to his master after his horrific failure. A part of him thought that he would, of course, but another part of him wasn’t so sure. He thought back to his old masters in Dalaran and then further back to his old masters in Silvermoon. They would all be chiding him for the mistakes he had made, he was sure. And he deserved it— this he was also sure of.

Ravandwyr was still in the midst of this thought when he felt a change in the magical composition of the air around him, and he looked up just in time to see the sin’dorei mage teleport in. His hair was disheveled and his eyes were wide with adrenaline, but otherwise he looked none the worse for wear as he held a sack out to Ravandwyr. “The draenei crystals,” he said, and he was a bit out of breath. “I found four of them— four shards, anyway. By the Sun, the Enkaat Ruins are a mess. I hope these work for you.”

Ravandwyr took hold of the sack and tipped it over towards his palm. One of the shards slipped out into his hand; it was smooth and bright and filled with glowing arcane energy. He nodded. “I think I can make these work,” he said.

A few moments later the two mages were in the goblin workshop. They leaned over a table as Ravandwyr examined each of the four crystal shards in turn before selecting one that was slightly larger and more whole than the others. “This crystal should work,” he said.

“That was the one I liked the best as well,” said the adventurer.

Ravandwyr nodded and reached for the staff, which was resting nearby. He held a hand just above the empty socket where the original headpiece had been and then gently, magically, reshaped it. He tried the crystal once, then paused to reshape the socket a bit more, like a sculptor shaping invisible clay. Finally he placed the draenei crystal atop the staff and used a burst of magical energy to fuse the two together. Then he stood back and admired his handiwork. The staff was as good as new: Ravandwyr could tell simply by the arcane energies that radiated from it. Now he could summon an image of his master and get back to work.

…he could, but he wasn’t sure that he wanted to.

No doubt Archmage Vargoth would want to know what had taken his apprentice so long to summon him in the first place. No doubt he had already wondered, and possibly already figured it out. And suddenly Ravandwyr felt his courage failing. He didn’t want to have to face the archmage. He didn’t want to have to tell him that he had lost the staff and then had to rely on an outsider to retrieve it for him.

_Besides, if I’m too cowardly to talk to him, how can I possibly help him?_

So Ravandwyr held the staff out to the adventurer, who regarded it with a puzzled expression before asking, “It’s fixed?

“Yes. And I’m giving it to you.”

The mage was utterly perplexed. “I thought you needed it to get in contact with your master.”

“He does still need to be contacted and saved. By you. I assume a mage such as yourself should have no problem channeling the spell. You’ll find him in the Violet Tower, in the ruins of Kirin’Var village east of here. It’s cursed, but between your own power and that of the staff, you should be able to penetrate the tower’s defenses.”

“But…”

Ravandwyr interrupted him. “Use the staff to conjure the archmage’s image once you get close. Tell him what has happened and that I have not… completely failed him.”

The mage opened his mouth as if to speak, but then closed it again. He was silent for a moment, and then finally said, “Alright.” He took the staff and then, with one last look at Ravandwyr, he summoned himself out of Area 52.

Ravandwyr never saw him again.


	6. The Archmage

The mage never returned to Area 52. For a couple of days Ravandwyr wondered if maybe he’d see him again, but then he stopped wondering. No doubt the adventurer had succeeded; no doubt Vargoth had informed him of Ravandwyr’s cowardice and no doubt both of them figured he wasn’t worth talking to anymore. Ravandwyr accepted this fact with a certain feeling of melancholic inevitability. His thoughts often turned to what to do now, but he was at a loss. Certainly he had no home anymore. Perhaps he would just stay here in Area 52 forever, performing magic tricks for the goblins. There were worse fates, he told himself, even if he didn't quite believe it.

Three days passed. Ravandwyr was meditating to stave off the constant hunger for magic that gnawed at him; his eyes were closed and his thoughts were elsewhere. So it was that he did not sense the shimmering of magic beside him until a voice spoke. “Ravandwyr.”

The elf’s eyes snapped open and he stood with a jump. “Master.”

Archmage Vargoth looked at his apprentice sympathetically. “Ravandwyr. What are you still doing here, in the middle of nowhere?”

Ravandwyr tried to meet eyes with his master but could not. He looked away. “I failed you,” he said after a pause. “In so many ways. I wasn’t strong enough to help you.”

“And yet here I stand. I’d say you helped me plenty.”

Ravandwyr looked at him quizzically.

“You were wise enough to know you lacked the strength to save me personally, so you recruited someone who could,” Vargoth clarified. “You did not fail me at all. You did exactly what I wished you would do.”

Ravandwyr felt a tickle of relief at these words, although he remained unconvinced. Vargoth, who knew that any healing Ravandwyr needed to do would take time, sat himself down in a chair in the tiny goblin workshop and motioned for his apprentice to do likewise. Once they were both sitting, Vargoth said gently, “You can’t stay here forever, you know. You are of course welcome to join me again, should you wish.”

Ravandwyr’s heart jumped at the chance, but doubt continued to cloud his mind. How could he be of use when his own insecurities and weaknesses were weighing on him so heavily? He shook his head. “I would be honored to return to your side at some point in the future. But not now, master.”

Vargoth nodded. “You are to return to Dalaran, then?”

Not Dalaran, not for years. He didn’t want to face his fellows in the Kirin Tor. Ravandwyr shook his head emphatically.

“Silvermoon?”

And here Ravandwyr laughed bitterly and he tried to shove the warm and inviting images of Eversong Woods, lingering after his meditation, out of his mind. Stubbornly, they remained. This frustrated him and he he began to ramble at length, more to himself than to Vargoth. “I can’t go back, I can never go back. Not now that my people have turned to siphoning magic from demons. Not now that… that they’re following Prince Kael’thas, who is completely mad, as you’ve seen. Not now that the Sunwell is destroyed and Quel’Thalas overrun with… with…” now images of the Scourge invaded his mind, ghouls and ghasts and gargoyles and nerubians, and the memories of Eversong Woods went dark, and for the first time the weight of what had happened to his country finally hit him.

And for the first time he put his head in his hands and cried.

He did not hear Vargoth stand, but he felt the Archmage’s hand on his shoulder. “The land may have changed, Ravandwyr. But your people have not.”

Ravandwyr looked up, his eyes red. “What?”

“I have worked with many elves in my time. The young man you entrusted the staff with was no different than the rest of them, beyond the color of his eyes. It will take much more than the Scourge to crush your people.”

“But Kael’thas, and the village… you saw yourself what they’ve done.”

“And I’ve also seen what happened to Arugal, to Kel’Thuzad, to Arthas Menethil. All humans. This does not change me. The actions of a few do not curse an entire race.”

Ravandwyr looked down, but didn’t say anything.

The two mages were quiet for a moment before Archmage Vargoth drew back. “I’m afraid I cannot stay,” he said. “The Kirin Tor and I have much to do, as I’m sure you know. Don’t be so hard on yourself, Ravandwyr. I could not ask for a better apprentice.” He smiled and bowed, and then teleported himself away, leaving behind nothing but a wrinkle of arcane energy in the air.

So Ravandwyr was alone… but not quite, because next to him Sagan chirped, and the presence of the tiny dragonhawk felt as though it anchored the elf to the real world.

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps he couldn’t go back. Perhaps Quel’Thalas had changed too much.

But perhaps… perhaps he could.

Slowly he stood and exited the workshop. He looked up at the endless expanse of the Twisting Nether. He felt like he had a lot of thinking to do before he made any final decisions.

So he would stay here while he thought. It wouldn’t be so bad. After all, Quel’Thalas was only a portal away.

**Author's Note:**

> http://pikestaff.tumblr.com


End file.
